Function Obsolete
by Pixaneth
Summary: He took the Grid with him after he managed to get out, and for three months he let it hang around his neck while he pretended it wasn't there, that it was finally over, that he wasn't unable to let it go. Sam Flynn tried to move on from the Grid, but you can't move on from something you choose to keep with you. Post-Legacy. Sam finds someone unexpected to talk to.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer; Tron is property of Disney. This work is a fanpiece and derives no profit or affiliation with- oh you get the idea.

This is what I do when I am a fan of a franchise but am unable to roleplay it with anyone; I pretend I know how to write stories. This story in particular has no direction or planned result. I can't promise fluid or even acceptable storytelling.

* * *

He couldn't remember how he'd managed to get into this situation again. Or, at least, he couldn't remember how he'd managed to get into another _similar _situation, so soon after getting himself out of the first one. Despite his dare-devil attitude and valiant f-you's to authority and the world he'd grown up in—not the _planet _or the _universe, _but the reality of being who he was and what everyone else thought and expected from him—he actually had a pretty good self-preservation instinct.

The bottom line was that he wasn't stupid. A rebellious, bitter young man—perhaps. But he wasn't stupid. And he was getting better on the rebellion thing too; Alan was still politely in shock about the whole matter and his sudden change of heart, but he could tell from the look in the older man's eyes whenever they crossed paths these past few days that Bradley was grateful for his turn around. Grateful that he was finally living up to his hopes and expectations, taking control of the company bit by bit.

He couldn't say he was taking ENCOM to fabulous new places, though. In truth, Sam didn't really know what he wanted to do with his father's—with _his _company. He told himself he was finally growing up. He told himself he was taking responsibility for something that no one else could rightfully claim. He told himself he was stepping forward and that he was going to somehow make things okay.

He told himself he was finally accepting the fact that his dad wasn't going to rise from the grave, and no matter how much time he spent waiting, the world wouldn't wait with him. Growing up indeed. Yeah, he was doing that, though he wasn't sure what direction he was taking it in yet. He hadn't even done anything noteworthy since taking control—though he had some ideas, even if he was still hovering on the fence about whether or not to jump all-in and go ahead with them. ("This company used to be more then just a fortune. It used to be a staple of life.")

The ENCOM of today was ruled by heads with dollar signs in their eyes. Sam couldn't claim to be a particularly generous person, not some charity saint that bled his heart out for all the unfortunate people of the world—he had been unfortunate too for a long time, and it had left its effect on him as a permanent part of his makeup—but he knew what the company had once been for his father, what it could still be for Alan, and what it could be for others if he bothered to try. He had money. ENCOM had money. It would take something monumentally catastrophic for ENCOM to _not _have money.

("There's a difference between being the best, and being the market's favorite choice.")

Being the company that _sold _top-quality products wasn't the same as being the company that _provided _top-quality products. Sam couldn't quite say when he'd acquired this epiphany, but he could attest to its strength and persistence. And Alan had seemed receptive to the idea.

The rest of the board _had not. _Apparently cementing ENCOM products as every student's first choice by providing them at affordable prices was a great indicator of his incompetence. Not to mention their greed.

("Give it time, Sam.") Bradley had coaxed him when he'd shown dangerous signs of frustration. Sam was smart and resourceful but he_ wasn't used _to dealing with other people, much less interacting with ENCOM's board in a more-then-antagonistic-fashion. For all his intelligence, the young man still found himself often grinding to a halt. He'd grown up withdrawn and angry, had matured into a frustrated, brilliant, but also foolish young man who had done more then his fair share of acting like an introvert and going out of his way to avoid things he didn't want to deal with. He had his bravery and he had his stubbornness—but he didn't have much patience.

To avoid the drama that involved the son of Flynn's foreseeable threats of quitting, Alan had advised him to find something to fill his spare time. Quorra had been the perfect distraction for a long time, and still often was—it wasn't easy getting her accustomed to the world outside the Grid, to her new body and all the ways it functioned differently then her old one had. It had been an adventure, a wonderful, brilliant experience that had left its impact on him as well. Hell, it still did; even if she wasn't falling over her own feet anymore as she worked out how a human body was supposed to coordinate itself, there was a renewed vive for life in his blood. She was infectious, and he hoped it never stopped.

She still loved the sun, still found herself besotted with each and every new textile feeling under her hands, and still made hilarious faces when she encountered flavors that apparently hadn't existed on the Grid. (Apparently sweet, sour, and tart were not tastes she'd ever sampled before. Her reactions had been worth every second, though. He still laughed at her for it regularly.)

She was his odd not-quite-sister who he found himself hopelessly bonded with; this affection and love that had sprung up on him and forged a connection between their two very different lives. He had his dad to thank, he was sure. Even if he had a thousand other things with which to blame Kevin Flynn, somehow, getting this not-quite-sister out of that mix wasn't one of them.

She was everything his father said she was, really. Naive, wise, miraculous in so many ways. He might not have his father with him, but… at least he had his not-quite-sister. Whatever that was supposed to be.

So maybe it was that infectious zeal for life and adventure that had given him the optimism and _courage_ to face the warped nightmare that had once been his childhood dream-world. To face the place that had took his father from him not just once, but twice.

He faced the Grid.

* * *

Or, more accurately, he faced what was _left _of the Grid, and what little of it he could access through the safe, non-life threatening medium of his laptop's computer screen.

The secret beneath his father's Arcade was no more; the laser was still there—he didn't know how to move it and was actually afraid to even try—but he'd moved everything of the Grid that he could and brought it with him, wanting to both eliminate it and somehow take it with him at the same time. Putting all the surviving data on a portable storage that hung around his neck might have been too personal, but there it hung.

It had accompanied him too, spending the past few months wrapped around his neck and resting on his counters and tables as he moved house and relocated to a two bedroom apartment farther in town. He did it for Quorra, of course; his waterfront flat wasn't fit for more then one tenant, and they both needed more privacy then that place could have afforded them. Especially Quorra.

So the three of them had moved, him, the ISO, and the remnants of the world his father had built, loved, and ultimately been betrayed by. …of course Sam wasn't oblivious; he knew that deep down, even if he'd denied it at the time, that he'd always harbored the intentions to take a closer look at what was on that storage. He'd been planning on it from the moment he moved the thing on there.

Two days ago, he'd finally realized that _it was time, _and had gotten out his laptop, sat it on his coffee table from his old place, and begun. Quorra was included. She couldn't _not _be included; he doubted he'd be able to keep it a secret from her even if he did decide not to tell her what he'd planned to do that day. To her credit, she'd taken it well; had seemed relieved, actually, and also filled with a kind of mingling trepidation and anticipation. There were many reasons for that; the Grid had been her birthplace and her home for far longer then his world had, even if they had both decided that she was never going to go back there. Neither of them felt they _owed _the Grid anything, but they were both too involved with it to simply let it go.

Simply put, they couldn't put it behind them, so in the stick went, and that evening, with the plates of their untouched dinner resting on the table beside them, Sam took that first step into seeing what was left of darker part of his father's legacy.

It wasn't much. He was caught between relief and a kind of numb, disbelieving horror as he realized just _how much _wasn't there. He'd never gotten to see what the Grid's data looked like before it had been scrambled to all hell after their escape and C.L.U's defeat, but Sam was certain that there should have been more then this. And even if there hadn't been, it still shouldn't have been the broken jumble that he discovered.

"What does it mean, Sam?" Quorra, distressed but trying not to show it—not sure whether she wanted to _be _distressed or not, whether she was okay with feeling that kind of thing towards the Grid—looked at him questioningly and apprehensive.

"Hell if I know." Had been his eloquent and wise response, as he'd proceeded to hurriedly examining as much of the data as he could. No matter how much he looked, however, he couldn't find anything that he—what? That he'd been hoping for? He didn't even know what he was hoping for when he'd started this. All he'd wanted to do was _know._

Quorra, at the very least, was always fascinated with being able to witness first-hand how Users interacted with a system, _outside _that system. She'd been somewhat disappointed at first—Sam suspected she'd been envisioning something more then the computer and keyboard that he'd ultimately introduced her to—but her fascination had returned, along with a heavy dosage of sober clarity and intimidation, when she realized that she, too, now technically had the ability of _being a User._

Sam didn't know what she thought of that, really. At any rate, being a former digital life form didn't give her innate knowledge of how to operate every and all pieces of technology. In fact, she seemed largely daunted and overwhelmed by the implications of what using a computer would imply.

He showed her things, though, and Grid-examinations turned into teaching lessons. Though maybe they weren't very good lessons, considering the fact that what Sam was showing her was essentially broken code and scattered data. The more they looked, the more they saw, the more Sam felt an unexpected—and unwelcome—sense of weight settling in his stomach.

It didn't look like the Grid was _there _anymore. Fragments, large chunks, sections that might have been complete were it not for a break here or a segment there—but none of those seemed capable of being the world that he had stumbled into, nor the home that Quorra had come from. There just wasn't enough of it that seemed complete.

Sam never expected to grieve for the Grid. It had been precious to him as a child, when he'd hung on his father's stories and lovingly admired Tron as his hero and prized the action figures his dad had brought home, but then his father had disappeared, and the things he'd loved had long ago stopped being bright and precious even before he'd learned it was real and horrible and _it_ _had taken his dad._

He hadn't even really grieved for his father yet. It didn't feel right to grieve for the place that had swallowed him up and killed him.

He told himself it was just some weird disappointment, then assured himself that _this means it's over._

Then he showed Quorra how to fix it.

* * *

'Fixing it' was a generous way of describing what he did, of course. In reality, Sam was chewing an already bare bone, succumbing to the inability to let himself find closure and using the excuse of impressing Quorra to explain his _need _to tinker with the corpse data.

He'd been doing this for a few days now, and despite the fact that he was now actively CEO of ENCOM, Sam was pretty sure he'd spent more time on his laptop with this personal project (_obsession) _then he had actually doing anything in regards to leading the company. Alan didn't know about the Grid—Sam didn't know how to tell him, had barely known how to explain Quorra's sudden appearance out of the blue. ("She's a friend I met over the internet. Known her for years now… never gave her much thought, though, until she said she wanted to move here and—I dunno. Seemed like the right time to make a change. She's good, Alan, don't worry. She's actually a lot like you; she keeps my head on track.")

He said she was from the United Kingdom and refused to elaborate. He said she wasn't his girlfriend and they weren't having sex and he was the farthest thing from comfortable at the thought of her in a relationship with anyone, and he didn't know how to explain it. Alan was suspicious, because Alan was too smart not to know Sam was feeding him utter bullshit. Luckily, Alan was giving him time; Quorra had proven herself trustworthy and they'd both made it clear that they didn't consider themselves a romantic item, and so Sam was given his space until he could scrape his shit together and come up with a better backstory.

("I think we should tell him, Sam. I think he'd understand.")

She was probably right, but Sam just _wasn't ready _for that. He wasn't even ready to face the husk of the Arcade where all of this had started. He was nowhere near ready for including _others _in this crazy reality that his life had become. Even if it was Alan, even if he was the one person in the world that deserved to be included, if only so he could finally, _finally _know what happened to his friend. But Kevin was dead, and Alan could wait.

He immersed himself in the remnants of the Grid in order to not think about just how long Alan Bradley had already been waiting.

The first time it happened, he'd spent all of two seconds thinking it was some kind of mistake or error he'd triggered, before realization hit him with the giddy rush of mingling panic and excitement. Adrenaline rushed through him, and he jerked, pushing himself up against the leather cushion of his office chair so that he could stare back at his laptop from at least some degree of distance.

It wasn't really anything that he'd seen before- just a simple, white box; vaguely rectangular in its proportions, void of menu bar or anything else that would have defined it as some kind of normal process that he'd accidentally triggered in his tinkering with the Grid's left over data.

Inside _the box, _against a white background and emblazed in stark, black-bold text, was a single word that rocked him to the core and prompted several psychological traumas to trigger all at once, much to his discomfort and simultaneous excitement. Sam stared at it for a long while, unable to formulate an appropriate method of response.

**/Identify/**

He spent so long staring at it, in fact, that whatever it was that had caused the text to appear in the first place apparently grew impatient and repeated the prompt.

**/Identify/**

All at once, Sam flinched away; his fingers curling into clenched fists against his suddenly hot palms, and jerked his arms back so that he was sitting ramrod straight. _Holy shit. Holy shit no way, not now, no nonono—_

He told himself internally, while pretending he hadn't just had over a dozen of his questions both mercifully and cruelly answered before his very eyes.

The giddiness and adrenaline were beginning to mix in his stomach in that particular way that caused the unfortunate host to develop fast-encroaching nausea, and shakily—slowly, as if the laptop itself would somehow gain the ability to bite or strike him with an identity disk—began to peck his fingers against the keys. Each point of contact was uncharacteristically similar to a flinch.

The unknown on the other end had just sent out another prompt for attention when he finally managed to type back his short reply.

**/Identify/**

_Hello?_

There was a short moment—a _very _short moment, in fact so short that Sam couldn't ever attribute it to any kind of hesitation, and would in fact have to admit that whoever this was, they seemed downright _eager _to talk to him—a response came.

**/Identify yourself/**

It had come pretty much instantaneously after he'd pressed enter, and yet something told him that it wasn't the work of some automated machine spitting out responses in reaction to his reply. He swallowed, licked his lips, and—wondering if he was going to regret this—typed another answer.

_My name is Sam Flynn._

He thought that might bring a pause; a moment of silence and shock like which had occurred the last time he'd announced his name to such a prompt—but whoever it was remained just as punctual, and clearly in the know.

**/User/**

Yeah, no kidding. Sam thought for a moment, then decided—what the hell, he was on the other side of a computer screen and whatever it was that was talking to him was in another world that inhabited the broken data stored on the stick inserted into his laptop. He might as well. He didn't think he'd be able not to.

_Yeah, that's right. Who are you?_

The response, as usual, came immediately, and as jarring and creepy as that might have been, at least he didn't have to wait.

**/Program/**

Well wasn't that helpful?

_What kind of program?_

**/Function obsolete/**

What?

What did that mean? He didn't know much about the Grid's programs, and Quorra hadn't imparted any great knowledge onto him, but something about that response didn't seem right.

_What does that mean?_

**/Previous function now obsolete/**

This guy—if it was a guy, because who knew, really?—was definitely not putting any special effort into making himself understandable.

_I don't know what that means. What function is obsolete?_

**/Mine/**

Oh…

Oh yeah. That… makes sense. He thinks? Sam doubted he'd still have a function either if his world fell apart around him, too.

Still…

_What was your previous function?_

He wasn't sure what it was that caused it, but a sudden ominous weight settled on him the second his finger pushed down on the enter key. And with the unknown program's continued punctuality in answering him, he immediately had that sense of weight validated a second later, as the bold lines of text appeared on his screen.

**/Maintain order/**

**/Rectify failures in the system/**

**/Finish the game/**

Sam blinked, licked his lower lip again, and squinted oddly at the screen.

…what the fuck was 'finish the game' supposed to mean?

* * *

He ended up talking to the faceless, voiceless, and consistently nameless program for the rest of the afternoon, and by some merciful stroke of luck not a single soul came to intrude on him during this interval. It was already late by the time the unexpected… conversation? Exchange? Encounter? He didn't know what to call it, but whatever it was, it had started already close to leaving-time, and the only interruptions he had were via the phone at his desk.

This was perfectly fine with him, because he probably wouldn't have dealt very eloquently with an intruder at that time; panic and flustered attempts to hide his laptop's screen would have doubtlessly resulted, and he didn't want to have to deal with that kind of situation. His reputation was already rocky enough, as was his standing with most of the people who had a reason to come talk to him.

It was _fine. _He was already talking with someone, actually, though the conversation was both frustrating and endlessly stimulating in ways he couldn't justify or even want to acknowledge.

The Program, whoever they were or used to be, since they refused to give him a name and only repeated back those three lines of function every time he prompted, had both very little to say and yet at the same time was undeniably eager to say it. Every single response was immediate and _there _the moment he sent his own, and Sam still wasn't sure how the other was being so quick about it; a human couldn't type that fast let alone think that fast. He didn't think a program could think that fast either, not to parse User speak _and _formulate a response instantaneously after receiving the message, but then he remembered that _time passed differently _in the Grid, and what might seem instant for Sam might actually be anywhere from minutes to hours for the program talking to him.

Once he had this realization down, Sam quickly began to put more consideration towards the responses he was receiving. They were short, avoidant, yet insistent on interrogating him on who he was, what he was doing, and why he was working on the Grid-code.

This had forced him to acknowledge something that he'd been avoiding for a while now, and uneasily admitted to the unwelcome, disquieting truth.

_I'm trying to see if I can fix it._

**/Why/**

The program was suspicious, and Sam found himself lightly offended.

_I thought that a Program would be happier hearing that someone's trying to repair the world they live in?_

**/Why/**

_Because otherwise you'll just be hovering in a mass of scrambled data and not in any actual working world?_

**/Why/**

_Because wanting to live in an actual place instead of random jumbles of nonsense has to be preferable to the alternative?_

**/No/**

**/Why/**

Sam was quickly learning that _The Program _did not possess a very extensive vocabulary. Actually, he—or she, or whatever it was—probably had a bigger one that he was seeing, but for whatever reason was choosing not to use it. Or couldn't. Actually, he should probably consider that to be the accurate cause; the program was inhabiting a fractured world that hadn't even been hooked up to a power source for the last few weeks. Months. It was surprising a program was actually functioning at all, even if the program itself informed him it wasn't.

**/Invalid/**

**/Program is not functioning/**

_Then how come you're talking to me if you're not functioning?_

**/I/O/**

_I don't know what that is. How are you talking to me at all?_

**/I/O/**

He didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but decided to change the subject instead of dwelling on it. He doubted he'd understand a lot of what the program said, and he doubted the program would be capable of explaining itself if he asked.

_How are things in there?_

**/Invalid/**

He came to realize, after a few stops and starts, that _**invalid**_meant the program didn't understand his question and he needed to rephrase himself. Time for a retry, then.

_What is it like in the Grid right now?_

Even though the pause was only a second's worth, and by human standards not a _pause _at all, Sam knew that time passed differently on the side the program was on, and figured that the slight delay meant that his question had forced it to do some thinking.

Or maybe it had hesitated. He didn't know.

**/Degraded/**

**/Dead/**

…_yeah, I figured. How are you still awake?_

He figured 'awake' would go over better then 'functioning', since apparently the program thought it wasn't doing that at the moment. Sam was pleased when, immediately, he found himself to be correct.

**/Was offline/**

So did that mean that while he'd been carrying the Grid around his neck, this program hadn't been 'awake'? Sam thought that made sense; it had been three months since he'd moved the data onto the storage, and given how long that would have been for Grid-time, he doubted any program could have remained 'alive'—or 'awake'—long enough that it could talk to him now.

_You must have come back online when I plugged the storage into my laptop. That's the only way you could have gotten power over the past few months._

**/Define; Storage, laptop/**

_Uh._

**/Invalid/**

**/Define; Storage, laptop/**

_I know! I didn't mean 'uh' as an answer. It's a noise Users make, okay?_

**/Invalid/**

**/Define; Storage, laptop/**

_I will, just hold on a bit! Things aren't as fast on my end as they are on yours. Give me a chance to continue before you get impatient._

Sam paused, huffed out in exasperation, then blinked when he realized the bold text hadn't appeared with a retort or a demand for him to define what his laptop or storage was. Stupidly, he felt confusion spring forth into his gut.

_Hello?_

**/User/**

The nervousness was overridden by the slightly nauseous sensation of relief.

_Hey. You went quiet there just now._

**/Time to respond/**

...oooohhh…right. He'd just asked for it… why hadn't he—oh whatever.

_Sorry. Do you still want to know what my laptop and the storage are, or are we past that now?_

**/Please define/**

_OK then. I put the Grid's data on the storage stick. It's where you are right now. It's like a portable hard drive except it's meant to be inserted into a computer, not function as one. My laptop is the computer I'm using to fix the code. I've got the storage hooked into it and that's why you've got power and probably why you are awake again right now._

**/Acknowledged/**

_So how are you doing, while we're on the subject?_

**/Function obsolete/**

**/System dead/**

**/Power insufficient/**

**/Damage sustained/**

**/Corrupted/**

Sam realized rather suddenly that there was a special kind of feeling for moments like this. It felt like putting your foot in your mouth, only several times worse and a thousand times more shameful.

_Sorry. Guess it's obvious things aren't going well for you right now._

**/Correct/**

Heh. He wasn't sure whether that was supposed to be sarcastic or not. It was impossible to tell with someone who had no voice, no infliction in their text, and used such short dialogue while communicating.

_Have my repairs had any kind of effect in there yet?_

**/Structure repair/**

Sam grinned, though immediately forced himself not to when he remembered he wasn't supposed to _like _the Grid.

_Do you think it's helping?_

Should it matter? It shouldn't matter. Sam tried to tell himself that it shouldn't, even though he found himself grinning again at the answer he received.

**/Superficial/**

_What kind of superficial improvement have I been making, then?_

**/Buildings/**

_That's something, at least. So, are you alone in the Grid right now?_

**/Negative/**

**/Multiple programs/**

He didn't know why that made him smile. It just did. He wouldn't dignify it with an acknowledgement beyond the fact that he did it. He was reasonably sure that the vast majority of the programs on the Grid hadn't been User friendly, and in fact probably would have been hostile towards him if he'd encountered them. Heck, maybe he _had _encountered some of the programs that were apparently also still in there.

Oh well.

_How are the other programs doing? You guys have energy now, and I'm repairing the buildings. What else do you need?_

There was another second's pause that he knew meant the program was thinking, and then…something changed in the way the program spoke. …or, typed. Or texted. Or _responded. _However it was it was answering him.

**/Population is small enough to survive off current resources/**

**/System requires extensive repairs/**

**/No functions being executed/**

**/System is in failure/**

That had to be the single longest response he'd received from the program yet. Not only that, but it seemed like it was more… _coherent _then the previous ones had been. Something about that jumped out at Sam, and he found himself feeling oddly like a therapist that was working with a client towards a breakthrough. Which was ridiculous because he _wasn't. _At all.

_What do I need to do to fix the system?_

**/Repair/**

_No kidding. What do I need to repair?_

**/The system/**

_No. Invalid. What do I need to do first, in order to begin repairing the system. What is your most immediate need?_

**/The system/**

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation and groaned dramatically, head tossed back for the audience that couldn't see him. "And here I thought we were getting somewhere."

Eventually, he managed to break the key and phrase his question right—though the answer itself was still confusing.

_If I am going to repair the system, what part of the system should I repair first?_

**/Defense/**

It was understandable yet too ambiguous; defense against what?

_What do you need to be defended against?_

**/Gridbugs/**

**/Me/**

Sam frowned, head tilting, and ignored the distant sound of footsteps coming down his hallway that meant it was going-home time. He had to wrap this up or risk explaining the sudden desire to work overtime to a bunch of people who wouldn't believe him.

_What are Gridbugs, and what do you mean 'you'?_

**/Gridbugs/**

**/Defend against corruption/**

_The Gridbugs defend against corruption?_

**/FALSE/**

**/Gridbugs spawn from faults in the system/**

_OK, got it, I think. And did you just shout at me?_

**/False/**

_Then why did you suddenly go all Caps-lock back there?_

**/Invalid/**

_No, not invalid. You shouted._

**/Invalid/**

_You shouted man._

**/False/**

**/Refocus/**

**/System defense/**

Sam raised a brow, amused despite himself and the fact that he shouldn't be arguing with half broken programs at that moment. Actually, he probably shouldn't be talking to them at all, but oh well.

_Okay. You need me to do something about Gridbugs. How do I defend against Gridbugs?_

Were Gridbugs even real? The name sounded…wait…bugs...in a Grid…

"Oh I get it…_huh."_

**/Reinforce city/**

**/No defense team/**

**/Can't combat/**

**/Corrupted/**

_So you're saying I should give the buildings some kind of protection against these Gridbugs?_

**/Affirmative/**

**/Clean folders/**

**/Rectify corrupted data quickly/**

_I should put the buildings in clean folders and then focus on repairing as quickly as possible?_

**/With caution/**

_What were you saying about a defense team?_

**/System lacking defense team against Gridbugs/**

**/Cannot combat/**

**/Corrupted/**

_OK so… you're lacking a defense team because it's corrupted and therefore can't counter the Gridbugs?_

**/Incorrect/**

**/Lacking team/**

**/Cannot combat/**

**/Corrupted/**

Sam sighed. This looked like it was turning into another one of those deadends where some failure to communicate caused all breakdown in understanding. He'd run into more of them then he'd like since he'd started talking with this program. It was like the thing's processor took an enormous dump each time it managed to string together something mildly intelligent.

_Who is lacking a team and who is corrupted?_

**/Me/**

Sam frowned.

_So you're the one who can't combat because you're corrupted?_

**/Affirmative/**

_And how are you corrupted?_

Somehow, Sam found that he was already braced for the answer, even before the immediate response came back to him when he hit the enter key.

**/Corrupted/**

**/Infected/**

**/Virus/**

**/I fell into the sea/**

…holy shit.

"Holy shit."

Quorra had told him about this. About the ISOs and the Sea of Simulation and what that bastard C.L.U had done to stop more of her people from immerging from it. He knew the sea had a virus in it. He hadn't, for some reason, thought that the virus was harmful to the rest of the Grid; C.L.U had put it there himself, so it must have been a controlled thing.

Had the current state of the Grid changed that? Was the virus now spreading? No, the program had said it had _fallen into the sea, _not that the virus had spread beyond it, so…

_How did you fall into the sea?_

…_hello?_

_Program?_

Sam stared at the screen, bewildered at the sudden cease in response. Grid-time shouldn't have allowed for that big of a pause; the seconds were considerably longer there. Had he…_triggered _the program with his question?

"Uh,"

He supposed it was possible; the program hadn't described very comfortable living conditions when he'd asked about the state of the Grid, and he'd not seen much evidence towards a particularly robust mind. If anything, the program seemed, understandably, damaged. Perhaps he'd finally asked too much?

Or maybe something had happened that had caused the program to no longer be able to respond? He didn't know, he didn't even know how to program had been able to talk to him in the first place, because as far as he could tell that _was not _normal—

**/C.L.U/**

Woah.

Wait.

_C.L.U? C.L.U put you in the sea?_

Another long pause, and Sam had the strangest, unexplainable feeling that he was listening to a comedian and was the only one in the room that didn't get the joke. That he should have pieced something together by now. That there was _something _just at the cusp of his mind that was trying to get his attention, but he couldn't pinpoint where it was no matter how hard he listened to what it was trying to remind him.

It wasn't just because C.L.U was being mentioned. It was something…else…

**/No/**

**/Fell/**

**/I fell into the sea/**

Sam tried again, and hoped that he wasn't about to hit another communication dead-end.

_Why did you fall into the sea, program?_

…

...

**/Flynn/**

**/Go/**

**/I…/**

Sam was already typing a response, face creased into a hard frown as he edged closer to the keyboard, when the dialogue box he'd been communicating through abruptly closed itself of its own accord.

Or, more likely, the accord of the person who had put it there in the first place.

Bewildered yet again and now more then a little uneasy, Sam sat back in the support of his chair and stared slack jawed at the screen in front of him, brain not quite sure what to do with the information that didn't make sense.

"...what the hell?"


	2. Chapter 2

When he finally arrived home later that evening- _very_ _late, _which, he'd noticed, was an increasing trend- Sam discovered Quorra had curled herself up on the sofa with Marvin, who looked more like he was being held captive rather than participating in a mutual cuddle session, and neither of them looking particularly adrift at his untimely return.

"Hey." He called lamely, voice reaching into the room as he began to both divest himself of his outerwear and making no effort whatsoever towards putting the things where they were supposed to be when not in use.

"Hello Sam." Her unconcerned voice answered, though the majority of her attention was still obviously devoted to the daring adventures of the amazing Spiderman, which happened to be the selection currently gracing their TV. Marvin glanced over at him, then quickly dismissed his long-time owner's presence due to the apparent lack of doggy treats on his person. It was laundry day, and because of Quorra's still limited wardrobe, she was wearing one of his graciously donated hoodies in place of an actual shirt. It was odd how normal it had become to see her in something other than her Grid suit.

Sam straightened, boots hitting the floor loudly as he tossed them aside, and plodded into the living room with his jacket still on. This should have been a hint that something _urgent _had occurred, but rather than take notice Quorra simply tucked her legs up in order to make room on the cushion, her eyes fixated upon the screen dutifully.

The weight of a grown man plopping down next to them garnered a similar lack of reaction, and Sam immediately began to dig his laptop out of its carrier while his companions sat obliviously by his side, unaware of the momentous event slowly approaching them. The thing came out with little fuss, though his eagerness to get it free caused him to perhaps be a bit rougher then the sensitive technology rightly deserved. He had it opened and booting up before he'd even managed to set it on the coffee table, which was just find since Sam found himself needing to clear a space for it before he could actually do that. They really needed to work on the whole table-clutter issue. Most of it was _his _clutter, of course, but still; team effort, and all that.

"So something happened today," he quipped mildly, much to the disinterest of his company. Neither Quorra or Marvin turned their heads in his direction, and the amazing Spiderman scored another notch on the continuing Sam Flynn vs. Superhero battle for attention.

"Oh?" Quorra responded politely, fingers scratching playfully behind an appreciative Marvin's ears, who whined and wiggled and eventually pressed his butt up against Sam's thigh, as if trying to force his less-favored human from their mutual throne. Quorra's constant presence and fascination with animals had quickly caused her to usurp his position as Marv's best friend.

"Yeah." He responded lightly, fingers working quickly over the keyboard, his eyes the only pair not riveted to the television. Lines of Grid data were already open in front of him, and he was wasting little time in browsing down to the sections that he had done the most editing on already. He grinned at the information peering back at him, and- following his rising suspicions- opened up the folder that he had created earlier that afternoon, before he'd left for his drive home.

His grin widened, his suspicions confirmed.

"Sweet." He remarked aloud, not intentionally directing it towards Quorra, but being overheard all the same. The randomness of the comment seemed to finally earn him some of her attention, for she at last moved her eyes away from the TV and settled them inquiringly on his face.

He was already talking before she could open her mouth, however, and urging her with mounting excitement towards the laptop in front of him. "Look," he stated, gesturing towards it as he sat back, his smile now bright and triumphant. Quorra gave him a confused look before leaning over to get a closer look, and made an incomprehensive noise as she regarded the groups of code.

"What's this?" She asked finally, since it was obvious Sam was the only one in the room who understood what they were looking at, and probably wouldn't let the matter drop until that understanding had been passed on.

"You have to promise not to freak." Was his unexpected answer, and Quorra turned her head towards him sharply, eyebrow raised. His smile widened, looking mischievous for reasons she doubted would remain mysterious for much longer.

"I don't think I 'freak', Sam." She answered instead, gaze mildly challenging. The man just shrugged innocently, his smile not dropping by even an inch. Her brow furrowed, and at the silence she belatedly realized this was going to be a guessing game. She gave him a _look, _before turning back to the laptop and observing the information shown to her.

"It looks like the code for the Grid." She observed bluntly, and was rewarded with the affirmative noise from her companion, but nothing more. She narrowed her eyes, considering. "You've put it in a folder." She observed, to which Sam gave no response. Seeing that more was expected of her, her lips pressed together thoughtfully and continued. "You've separated it for some reason."

"Uh huh." Was his only helpful response, and Quorra glanced at him quickly, her gaze suspicious.

"Well alright, obviously you've figured out how to do something with this particular code, but you won't tell me what." She spoke, the clear tone of challenge entering her voice and taking the game up a notch.

"It's really exciting." Sam assured her, as if this would somehow justify his game of playing difficult and withholding information. Quorra gave him another _look, _then cast her eyes away in an exasperated roll.

"Can you at least tell me what it is I'm looking at in the folder?" She prompted, now reduced to begging for hints.

Sam obliged her, however, and spared a quick glance at the laptop as well. "Structures." He said shortly, obviously choosing to remain tight-lipped with his information. "Buildings."

Quorra's face hardened in consideration, then turned back towards the screen as she studied the code over again. A moment passed, before she hesitantly spoke.

"…but…that's not all." She raised a hand, and gestured towards a line that was distinct enough for her to recognize. "That." She tapped the screen lightly to further emphasis. "That's not a building."

"No it isn't." Sam agreed, looking and sounding pleased with himself, and she could tell from the expression behind his eyes that he was eager for the moment where she would understand enough that he could finally cave in and reveal everything. The game began to finally run along with her, eliciting a kind of reluctant enjoyment, and despite herself Quorra felt a smile fighting to emerge on her lips.

"It's program code." She continued, finger hovering over the mentioned line as if she could somehow physically touch whatever entity had once been a part of this line. It looked remarkably complete, too. Was Sam trying to repair the program? Was that what this was about? She turned to him expectantly, and their eyes locked just as he began to speak.

"Yup." He confirmed, and the excited, _happy _quality behind his expression seemed to increase. _Huh. _Quorra felt that her suspicions of him intending to fix the program were accurate. But she as she gained that small bit of confidence, Sam's next words blew it away unexpectedly.

"But I wasn't the one who put it in there." He revealed at last, looking far too pleased with himself as he watched her expression falter in surprise, then gradually morph into comprehension.

Quorra looked surprised, and somewhat disbelieving, though he could tell the implications of what he'd said had yet to fully sink in for her, because her reaction had been so _mild._

"You didn't put the program there." She repeated back, voice dead panning slightly. A second later and part of the puzzle began putting itself together, because something resembling alarm appeared on her face. "_You didn't put it there." _She said again, only this time with dawning comprehension.

Sam just smiled. "I made the folder, put a few buildings inside it, and then drove home." He nodded towards the laptop, and continued. "And in that amount of time, _that _appeared in there too."

Quorra's expression was priceless; there was a lot about the User world that astounded her these days, and he was no stranger to seeing amazement and confusion on her face. But right then, in that moment, Quorra looked more shocked then he had ever seen her before- as if what she had just heard him say so far exceeded any expectations she had conceived, that she simply couldn't comprehend the full extent of their implications.

He loved it. A corner of his mind was giggling stupidly in wild, unabashed glee at the moment. He probably should have been ashamed, but he decided that laughing at her was a better investment of his time.

She was clearly too shocked to react to being laughed at, and instead was blinking dumbly at him with widened eyes and hanging jaw, momentarily lost for words.

Eventually, slowly, she began to work again; her voice coming out stuttering and hesitantly. "So…so…you're saying…"

Sam nodded, grin never falling. "The program moved into the folder on its own." He confirmed, and from the way Quorra visibly shook in response to his words, he might have well thrown the entire couch at her.

She gaped, then quickly rounded on the laptop with sudden intensity. "Then that means-,"

"Yeah." He interrupted, also glancing towards the screen, and with a single hand on the keyboard, began to scroll down the lines of code. As the data moved past them, a breathy laugh escaped him. "Look. Holy fuck Quorra, _look."_

Quorra looked, though she seemed too overwhelmed to understand anything at the moment, and only stared at the screen apprehensively, mouth slightly open.

He continued on unprompted, smile stretched across his face as if he'd won an award. "It's not just _one, _Quorra. There's _dozens _of programs in there now."

Quorra jerked, startling Marvin from his comfortable position, and stared at him with such a pale face that he suddenly began to wonder if she was about to faint.

* * *

She didn't faint, as it turned out, but her reaction had still been so utterly dramatic that it had gratified every bit of the inner prankster that still lived within him, hungering for an outlet now that ENCOM was no longer a suitable target, and Sam had basked in the glory of his accomplishment for the entire evening.

Quorra was a good sport, wise in ways he couldn't understand and experienced in ways he wished she never had to live through, but that didn't render her immune to his mischievous side. He should probably be at least a little repentant for his behaviour, but at the moment it was such a nonissue that he ignored his conscious.

Besides, she was too busy being absolutely _astounded_ of his laptop to take much time to feel offended over his sense of humor; she'd been preoccupied with the lines of code since he had finally revealed their significance to her, and they had immediately decided that dinner was less important than figuring out exactly how many programs were currently inhabiting the folder.

Sam was the keener eye when it came to identifying the code, so it was more an issue of him going through the folder while Quorra huddled at his side and ignored the television, her earlier interests now long forgotten. Marvin was oblivious to the meaning behind their actions and had quickly moved to occupy the rest of the sofa's space; stretching himself out on his back while slumbering.

"So that's twenty four so far." Sam concluded at last, after finally reaching the end of the folder's contents. He sat back, withdrawing his hands from the keyboard as he processed the new information they'd just gathered, and Quorra took the opportunity to lean forward towards the screen, staring at it with such intensity that one might think she would discover a way to look through and into the world beyond.

"They're…_alive_." She said, sounding both awed and intimidated at the prospect. Her feelings were still muddy towards the Grid, but neither of them truly wished death upon its inhabitants—maybe some, but that was more of a self-preservation issue then any widespread animosity for the programs.

"Yeah I know," He agreed, not at the fact that there was still _life _on the Grid, but over the sheer amazing fact that that life had persisted after everything that had happened to it. "It's amazing. I can't- I don't-," he fumbled, finding himself clumsily handling his own sentences. "It's just amazing that they're still there." He concluded finally, because that was close enough to what he'd wanted to say.

Quorra made a noise, something he couldn't place, and leaned back so she was sitting normally again. Her eyes, however, had remained on the screen, and her hands were gripping the loose fabric of her slacks at the knees. "It seems hard to believe." She expressed, and Sam thought there might have been a tone of indecision in her voice. It attracted his attention, and he turned his eyes away from the laptop in order to look at her.

"How so, Q?" He queried, looking at her with interest.

She shrugged, looking like she didn't know how to explain herself. "It's just…after your father…" She fought at this point, and Sam knew that she was trying to speak of the Reintegration- which was not something that either of them had gotten to the point of being able to speak of yet. At least not easily.

"After Flynn defeated C.L.U, I hadn't expected there to be anything left." She continued finally, because they _were _getting better with it, really. It was just taking time. "He'd always told me…always said that Reintegration wasn't an option. That the event would have destroyed the Grid along with him. It's why-," she broke off, seemingly reconsidering her decision to keep talking, and lowered her face to stare at the floor.

Sam placed a hand on her shoulder, because that's what _he _wanted someone to do for him at the moment, and shook his head. "Dad had his reasons." As much as he still had his doubts over his father's decision to stop fighting and just _wait _for something to come save him,Sam had reached that part of the road that taught him when it wasn't worth dwelling on something. Quorra nodded.

But Kevin Flynn had been right about one thing; Reintegrating with C.L.U _had_ caused immeasurable damage to the Grid, thereby proving once and for all the validity behind his decision to avoid Reintegration for all those long cycles of his imprisonment.

"The programs…" Quorra began speaking again, and her eyes were back on the laptop. "What do we do?" She questioned him, despite not looking.

And she had a point, really; what _were _they going to do? Sam sighed, and allowed her to see the fact that he didn't know the answer. "…I dunno." He admitted, as he leaned forward and supported his weight by placing his elbows over his thighs. "Honestly Q, I don't know if I can rebuild everything. Don't get me wrong; I wanna help and I know it's what they _need… _but it's way over my head. Dad created that place by being _inside _it, and that's not something I'm willing to do. The Grid's a mess…most of the programs are probably dead. Most of the damage is so vast I can't tell what half of it used to be. And I guess now we both know that the data even _moves around _on its own now, so…" He sighed.

Twenty four survivors out of what had once been millions? It wasn't like he didn't _want _to help- _he did!-_ but how was he supposed to pretend he didn't see the reality of the situation?

"…I'm not dad." He admitted, apologetically. He couldn't make miracles the way Kevin Flynn had.

"I know Sam." She responded softly, turning to him as she lifted a hand to touch the side of his arm in a consoling gesture. Had they been on the Grid and wearing their suits, her fingers would have been settled over the bright line of a circuit, which would have allowed her to transmit a pulse of consoling energy into him in that way that weird second language programs had. In the User world, of course, there were no circuits, and instead her fingers found the end of his t-shirt's sleeve. "I don't want you to become another Creator."

He glanced at her, and offered a grateful look for her understanding. "Doesn't make me feel any less of a failure, though." He said, with a half-smile lifting his lips that expressed little in the way of happiness.

She shook her head, and the consoling hand on his arm turned into a light push. "You're a User." She countered, as if that somehow freed him from all uncertainty. It didn't, but it still made him smile more genuinely this time, in appreciation.

"Yeah…I guess that's what _they _want too." He mused, and his eyes wandered back to the ever entrancing screen of his laptop. Quorra tilted her head, looking at him curiously, too sharp not to pick up on the hint he'd just dropped.

"What does that mean that?" She questioned. _Besides the obvious._

Sam glanced at her for a moment, then turned back towards the laptop, his gaze distant. "…you gotta make me another promise not to freak out." He said.

Quorra raised a brow, though didn't take his warning lightly despite her willingness to challenge it. "You've already told me that." She pointed out.

"Yeah, but this time you _really _gotta promise not to freak out." Sam insisted, and his gaze rolled back to look at her seriously. Quorra's expression smoothed slightly, and she regarded him with a silent sobriety that told him she was waiting.

He hesitated. "…the...look. Uh…" He bowed his head, bringing a hand up to rub nervously at the back of his neck, and only made her expectant look grow impatient. He swallowed his anxiety. "The folder thing… it wasn't my idea."

There was a short moment where Quorra simply stared at him confusedly, obviously not picking up on what he was trying to allude towards, and Sam grimaced as he forced himself to continue. Why did it feel so… _weird _to talk about this? "Remember when I said something had _happened _today…?"

Quorra was giving him that _get on with it Sam _look again.

He sighed, and somehow found the balls to look her in the face as he spoke. "Well, one of _them_ surprised me this afternoon by… giving me a call." He said bluntly, his initial resistance now crumbling in the rush that came with his confession.

Quorra's expression clouded confusedly, obviously not certain how to interpret his words, but Sam was _done _talking for now, so she'd have to figure the rest out on her own. Thankfully, she seemed ready to do that. She also didn't seem to need him to provide any clarification that he wasn't referring to any of his coworkers, either. "You're saying that… you were contacted?" She asked finally, her voice slow and uncertain, hushed in a way that struck him so suddenly that his mind flashed back to an earlier time, when he'd been standing in his dad's hideout in the heart of the outlands, and discussing going behind the old User's back. She carried that same hesitant carefulness that had been with her then, too, only this time there was no portal, no Kevin Flynn, no escape from the Grid at stake. She wasn't hopeful here; just wary and slightly confused, looking as if she wasn't quite sure whether she wanted to believe him or not. Maybe half hoping she'd misunderstood his meaning.

She'd be disappointed then. That, or potentially horrified. Sam nodded anyway, then shrugged in a way that, had the world worked by _his _rules, would have instantly absolved him of any associated guilt. "I was working on the code as usual when this…" He trailed off, and lifted his hands up to mimic some invisible shape in the air. "…_letter box _popped up, and text started appearing in it. The next thing I know, I'm talking to my computer." He stated, while giving her a look that said, in his own unspoken Flynn-language; _it's not _my _fault, right?_

That last part was probably a bit unnecessary, but sarcasm had always served as a good shield to mask himself with when he was feeling uncomfortable, so it didn't take much for him to bring it out now.

Quorra had already been frowning before this, but now her expression was so pronounced it had taken on a rare severity that he didn't see on her often. Not since that time he'd had to explain to her what a 'food chain' was, and how pretty much every ecosystem on the planet was built around multiple creatures _eating_ each other. That such a thing was the very basis of how this world _worked, _not only expected but also natural. That the 'system' of the User world required it to function. That it was, in a very simplified way, the system itself; _life._

"But…how is that possible?" It wasn't so much a question directed towards him as it was an uneasy statement on her part. Sam could tell that Quorra was thinking aloud now, and the unsettled expression that had come over her also bespoke of how she might not be entirely comfortable with the thought of Sam talking with one of the programs they were currently looking at through the computer.

Sam just shrugged, and she shot him a dark look that hissed _you're not being helpful _in its unspoken reproach.

In reluctant acknowledgement to this, he gave a quiet mutter; "Wasn't my idea. I didn't even know they could do that, honestly."

Quorra awarded him a pointed look, before abruptly turning her attention onto the laptop and leaning forward. Despite her renewed focus, Sam knew there was nothing she could do to bring the communication window up again; he'd tried to do it himself, and he knew more tricks then she did. Quorra seemed to know this as well, as she made no move to try fiddling with the computer, and instead just stared at it closely, as if waiting for the program that had talked to Sam to somehow sense her attention and make an appearance.

The laptop's screen didn't change.

"…what did the program say?" She questioned finally, once she acknowledged the futility of her expectations. Sam glanced off to the side, his mind casting back to the conversation he'd had earlier that day, and after a few moments supplied his best assessment.

"To find out who I was, I think." He answered, as he glanced at the screen resting in front of them. It looked perfectly innocent at that moment, nothing unusual aside from the Grid code. "And what I was doing with the Grid's code."

Quorra glanced at him, her head tilted in a confused manner. "You're a User." She pointed out, as if that somehow explained everything, and she was answering to the program in Sam's stead.

He chuckled weakly, though not really because he found her statement funny. "Yeah, that was definitely made apparent." He mused aloud, and at the questioning look she sent him, he elaborated. "The uh, program preferred to call me 'User' instead of my name."

Quorra blinked, frowning slightly, and obviously shared his opinion of how that was an odd thing. Though technically referring to Sam as 'User' wasn't incorrect—just extremely formal. Or rude, if Sam had requested to be called by his name instead.

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but Sam abruptly found himself cutting her off; his mouth suddenly beyond his control as it spilled his inner thoughts into the air between them.

"Actually there's another thing I need to tell you- about the program." He started carefully, his body tensing slightly because he had no idea how to bring this up without feeling awkward and, in some ways, insensitive. Part of him was insisting that he was overthinking this and there was no reason to be self conscious. Another part felt like _not _being conscious of it would somehow be cruel. Because it was an ISO-thing, and as such a Quorra-thing. "The… uh, program mentioned something to me, before it cut our communication. The reason it told me to put the folder in there was to defend against something called _Gridbugs-," _her eyes sharpened, recognition flashing through her demeanor as he said the world, "-and during all that, it mentioned something about how it wasn't able to combat the bugs itself because of something that had happened to it."

Quorra was looking at him expectantly now, and the fact that she wasn't bracing herself or even seemed remotely suspicious of sensitive subject matter being raised, helped Sam bolster that side of himself that insisted he was just being overly conscious about it. He pressed on, and the slight tone of uncertainty that had been carrying in his voice faded.

"It said that it was _corrupted. _Apparently because of a virus it got after falling into the Sea at some point."

He didn't mention the involvement that C.L.U apparently had in the matter, both because he wanted to keep his revelation simple, and because he just didn't want to mention the bastard and make this any heavier than it was. Potentially was. Possibly was.

…actually, the more he watched her, the more Sam began to suspect that the heaviness might be all on his side; Quorra didn't look even remotely alarmed at the mention of what had been one of the key blows in the genocide of her people. She just blinked confusedly for a few moments, seeming more confused over the concept he'd just proposed then the subject matter that had been brought up.

"…the _Sea_?" She said, and he just nodded. She blinked again, and tilted her head in puzzlement. "…that's…I've never heard of that happening." She stated, not knowing what to think of it.

"I don't think the program had a reason to lie about it." He pointed out, and Quorra leaned back, making a quick gesture of dismissal with her hand.

"No, I didn't mean that I was discounting it. I just meant that as far as I know, that sort of thing hasn't ever happened." Her perplexed demeanor was accompanied by a permanent downcast of her eyes, as she spoke. "I mean… C.L.U made that virus for ISOs, not Basics. And as far as I've heard, it only ever stopped the Sea from creating more of us. It didn't infect programs the way a normal virus would have. It was…" She made a frustrated expression here. "…self contained. Directed?" She sounded unsure of her own words, as if she was half looking to Sam for confirmation that she was on the right track at all.

Sam was left feeling momentarily torn between relief that the mention of the Sea's virus hadn't garnered any kind of personal reaction, and the bemused embarrassment that he had been expecting anything less than the cool, stable demeanor that he should have never stopped associating with her.

No sooner had he thought that, however, and Quorra's head was snapping back up with a startled expression across her face. "Wait- are you saying the program _is_ Infected?" She asked, her voice now carrying a different tone. There was apprehension there now, and Sam figured that she'd just now finally realized the same implications he had a while ago.

He nodded, his own face grim. "I kinda figured that wasn't a good thing." He stated wirily, one shoulder rising up in a half shrug that turned his entire posture into awkward sheepishness. Immediately afterwards, however, he added; "I'll admit it's got me concerned. I dunno how different viruses are on the Grid, but in a regular computer they can do some nasty shit."

He gave her a meaningful look now, which contained the unspoken _so what do we do about this virus-carrying program?_

* * *

Admittedly, Sam already had a lot on his plate when it came to the Grid, not to mention the other numerous and equally—if _more—_demanding factors of his life, the biggest of which were now ENCOM (definitely) and Quorra. (The latter not as much anymore.)

Worrying about a virus carrying program when the rest of the Grid was already in shambles with only a literal handful of survivors that neither he nor Quorra wanted to keep waiting was frustratingly time-consuming. Especially since they couldn't decide whether the Infected program should be considered a threat or not. Common sense told him that if the Infected program was carrying a virus then that was _potentially lethal _for what remained of his father's legacy, and a part of him was trying to urge the rest of him to take action in a very definitive, permanent way.

His conscious, on the other hand, informed him that this was one of those handful of survivors and, honestly, despite the mad dash he'd run through while in the Grid and his willingness to Derezz programs _then, _he wasn't so okay with it now. Whoever this Infected individual was, even though they weren't one of his father's precious ISOs, was still technically _alive _in a sense. Maybe more than just 'a sense'—just _alive, _period, only in a different way than Sam and Quorra now were.

He had killed enough programs while on the Grid, and Sam felt there was something to be lost of himself if he didn't show reluctance to do it now.

There was also the factor that this program had been the one with whom he'd spoken to, and even though they had been confusing and difficult to talk to, it just didn't sit _right _with Sam to search this program down in the lines of code and _delete _them.

It would be almost like a betrayal. Part of him had already bought into the whole line of thought that, more or less, equated to; _this person reached out to me for help, and now I'm considering deleting them for something they probably can't control._

Quorra was a little more insistent on the 'virus equals bad' dilemma, but in the long run was also reluctant to end the program's existence for what had, as far as Sam knew, been C.L.U's fault. He was sure the program didn't _ask _to be dropped into the Sea and catch a virus for whatever crime that megalomaniac had found him or her guilty of.

In the end, neither knew how to address the issue of an Infected program on what remained of the Grid, much less when that program had been the one to reach out to its User, presumably for assistance on the Grid's behalf.

If only there was a way to get in contact with the Grid again—but short of going back down to the Arcade and moving all the data back where it had originally been, and then jumping inside with the still-present laser, Sam honestly couldn't think of one.

And of course _that _was so far from being one of his options that he cringed at the very thought of it.

At some point late that evening, after much deliberation, Sam had picked himself up from the sofa cushions and dragged himself reluctantly towards the kitchen, intent on making the both of them some dinner. Marvin, who had immediately jumped up from his lounging position on the couch when he'd noticed Sam's movement, leapt down onto the floor and raced after him excitedly, yapping sharply in demand for his own meal, something which Sam _knew _he should shush the dog for, but found himself unable to care about at the moment.

Since his mind and heart were obviously elsewhere that night, he settled for nuking a pack of macaroni in the microwave, knowing full well that it would taste terrible, and then finally caved in and served Marvin the only substantial meal of the evening; a whole bowl full of his veterinarian recommended dog food.

It might not have been the same as a fresh, juicy steak, but Sam fed Marvin enough fast food and left overs that he really did owe it to the little dog to give him something healthy for a change. Besides, his vet would give him the hairy eyeball if she ever found out what he'd been giving his dog, especially after the condition Marv had been in when Sam had initially adopted him.

"Sam, the battery is getting low." Quorra informed him warningly, once he'd made the return trek back to the living room, and both of them were trying to force themselves to eat the cheesy noodles. Sam glanced up at the laptop's screen as he poked unenthusiastically at the macaroni with his fork, and was grateful for the excuse to put the bowl down.

It was as he was digging out the laptop's power cord from his carrier bag that a thought suddenly struck him, and he turned his entire body around to shoot Quorra with a contemplative look.

"It's been three months since I moved the programs onto the stick." He pointed out, perplexed frown in place. "That's… a long time on their side. A long time without power. So how come they're not…" He trailed off. What was he supposed to say? How come the programs hadn't starved to death from lack of energy? …well, yeah, that was technically what he was asking, Sam supposed.

He just gave her a, _well you know, _shrug instead, and Quorra didn't fail to get his meaning.

"I…never thought about it like that before." She admitted, now regarding the laptop and its low battery warning with newfound thoughtfulness. "The Grid never seemed to lose power, so I've never experienced something like that myself. But…" Her eyes trailed over the laptop's surface, taking in its shape and probably, Sam suspected, trying to grasp at the fact that _this _was the kind of thing that her world had once existed in. "…but, well, you can turn a computer off for days, even weeks, and when you turn it back on the programs are all still there." She concluded finally, as if somehow it was just that simple.

Sam supposed that it was the only plausible way either of them could really hope to look at it, considering the perspective they now lived in. And anyway, it wasn't like she hadn't just made a very valid point.

"I guess you're right." He acknowledged, before finally shuffling across the short distance to the nearest outlet, and mercifully plugging the cord in. The laptop removed its warning popup and, as if satisfied, changed the battery icon to its charging state.

Sam had half hoped that they would find something to talk about after that, but he was to be disappointed; the following minutes were spent in a kind of anticipatory silence, with the both of them pecking at their lackluster dinners while stealing glances at the computer screen. Sam figured that they were both hoping for the same thing, but was not surprised when he found himself disappointed when no mysterious box magically appeared.

He sighed, leaned back against the back of the couch in defeat, and cast his eyes onto the television. He wanted to say something, start conversation, find _something _to occupy the restless, impatient energy stewing inside him without means of escape.

Quorra was the one who beat him to it, by speaking up with a sudden proposition that left him blinking.

"Sam, could you _code _a message to the programs?" She questioned him wonderingly, large eyes regarding him with a hopeful eagerness that had him immediately reminded of just how _brilliant _she could be when his own inspiration failed.

He turned to her, immediately intrigued. "Like how?" He asked, even as his mind supplied him with a completely unnecessary mental image of a giant, floating, neon billboard hovering over the vast city of the Grid, presumably bearing whatever message he'd be bold enough to actually slap on for all to see.

Quorra's mind didn't seem to be all that far off from his at that moment, either, which was a little terrifying actually. "I don't know- a sign, maybe? Something to let the programs know we want to talk to them? If the communication can only be started on their end…"

It was such a ridiculously preposterous idea that Sam immediately realized it was _absolutely _everything he needed to be doing right now.

* * *

Honestly, Sam had no idea what the code he'd just written actually looked like inside the Grid- much less a shattered, virus-infested post-Reintegration Grid at that- but he had defined the rough shape of an _object _amongst the cluttered mess of code, and had put it in the folder where the programs had migrated to during his trip back home.

Eventually, he also created an additional 'sign' for outside the folder as well, just in case the program that had contacted him earlier that day was avoiding the other programs due to its… _condition._

Quorra had been the one to suggest that possibility; apparently, Infected programs underwent something that, to Sam, seemed to resemble the symptoms of rabies. He was reasonably sure that they didn't froth and drool at the mouth, but Quorra did tell him that virus-infection tended to manifest in one of two ways.

The first one was similar to the typical association with a rabid animal, which Quorra referred to as _Extroverted_; aggressive to an extreme, actively wandering about the Grid in order to spread its virus to other sections and programs. They even had their own version of mouth-frothing; Quorra had called it 'circuit bleeding', and apparently it involved a program's circuits literally bursting open and leaking the program's own energy fluids over itself. The leaked energy then acted in a similar way that a rabid animal's saliva would have, by transferring the virus through direct contact.

The second variation of virus-infection struck Sam as being similar to dumb rabies, only considerably more disgusting; unlike with the 'furious' version, the second- or 'dumb' ("It's called _Introverted_." Quorra interjected), as Sam had come to identify it in his mind- type occurred when the virus had a more devastating effect on the Infected program then the environment around them. From what he could discern from Quorra's reluctant explanation, this 'dumb' virus-infection broke down the body of the program it inhabited, often rendering the carrier incapacitated or just paralyzed. It also drove the Infected to behave in almost the complete opposite of the furious version; compelling the Infected to seek out a secluded area to hide in until the devastation took place. The general idea behind this behaviour was to get the Infected to avoid detection until the virus could establish a strong root in the system. It was also the more troublesome variation because of this, due to its ability to _hide._

Then Quorra had gone and made the whole moment even more disturbing by telling him that it was not uncommon for the bodies of such 'broken down' programs to attach onto the area around them, like flesh grafting to the surface of a building, and _fester _and breed the virus until it corrupted the surrounding infrastructure.

He knew his understanding of viruses and their effects on programs wasn't entirely accurate- he had influence from his own world that caused him to view it all like a biological virus rather than a digital one- but Sam felt he had a pretty good concept worked out. After all, it didn't seem like that hard of a thing to understand; basically, virus equals bad.

"There was a program that was Infected a long time ago, during the start of the Purge." Quorra said, after the main explanations had been given, and they were left to sit on the couch awkwardly. The former-ISO's gaze was fixed steadily upon her hands, which she had clasped together over her knees while she'd talked. "The way an Infected behaves is always influenced by the virus that's infecting them, of course, but…" She shrugged. "I know the Sea's virus is unique; it was made to serve a purpose and a function, to do one thing in particular and ignore everything else that went near it. It's why I don't understand how a program could become Infected by it; it_ doesn't _Infect programs. It was never written to."

Sam couldn't provide an explanation for why that would have changed now, or any explanation at all really, considering the fact that he knew even less about this then she did, and even then Quorra seemed pretty confused and lost about it all. Again, the thoughts that the program might have lied or simply been mistaken crossed his mind, but he dismissed those as unlikely without much consideration; he was reasonably sure that a program would be able to recognize if they were Infected or not. …right?

He shot her a wondering look, now compelled to ask her. "Do you think an Infected program would be able to communicate the way this one did?"

Quorra's mouth twisted, her expression hardening seriously as she thought it over. "…possibly." She said at last, while glancing up towards his face. "Extroverted Infected can retain processor awareness even during moments of extreme aggression. But their…" An odd expression crossed her face now, and Sam suddenly realized that she was speaking _from memory. _From personal experience. "…their minds are not the same." She said finally, voice breathy. Her head dropped, almost mournfully. "…not the same."

He knew then, without a doubt, that Quorra was speaking of something from _her _experience, not just… the past. He felt tempted to ask, to question, to say _who was it? Who did you know?_

He threw the temptation down, and moved onward to question her about things that weren't forbidden and none of his business.

"The program _was _pretty erratic." He acknowledged, then continued. "So then maybe…?"

But Quorra shook her head. "No." She said, and Sam wondered why she sounded so sure of herself now. Why she could lift her head up and regard him with such solemn, grim _knowing. _"No…it's not the same. You'd _know, _Sam."

Sam decided that Quorra knew what she was talking about, and let the subject drop with a nod.

Quorra closed her eyes, breathed out slowly, and settled back against the couch in silence.

* * *

Far away and yet closer than could ever really be understood, a fractured, shattered hand rose into the air, offering up the damaged remains of two barely connected Identity Disks, and spread its fingers wide as the familiar light of the I/O tower accepted the symbiotic items and brought them upwards.

Water spilled, dripping onto the floor of the chamber to collect in a growing puddle around two black clad feet, before finally spreading outwards in distinctly un-water-like fashion.

And all around, echoing from the walls and ceiling and hallways, was the misplaced sound of the Sea, crashing against a non-existent shore.

* * *

_**/User/  
**_

* * *

_****_(End Chapter)

_I bet none of you thought I was going to update this. Heheheh._

_In other news, I'm still without a roleplay partner for Tron, and it huuuurts. :(_

_Special thanks to Ridyr for betaing a LARGE portion of this chapter and helping me with my weird Canadian grammar. IOU._

_End of line._


End file.
